


Grade Bump?

by deltachye



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, F/M, Lime, Pervert Hatake Kakashi, Pervert Reader, Reader-Insert, Teacher-Student Relationship, aka thirst, another student wanting to fuck a teacher fic frm me?? shocked?????, ksksk these tags r killing me idk if u clicked on this u know what ur getting into goodBYE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [highschool teacher!kakashi x student!reader]He’s demonic. You need to pass. An unfortunate slip-of-the-tongue and stray eye leads you to come to the realization that Mr. Hatake's something of a closet perv; and hey, some people learn better hands on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimers!!!: reader is 18, don't fuck ur teacher irl regardless of age, this is just thirst fic so calm tf down it has no repercussions irl so if u clicked on it to read then don't attack me for writing it, k thx bye lol

 

You throw a hand behind you to steady yourself, but the desk—fuck this goddamn school’s budgeting—wobbles precariously on three legs rather than four, making your gut lurch as if you’re always going to fall. But it doesn’t seem like he has any intention of letting that happen as his large hands lock under your knees, yanking you into his body with disgruntled desperation. You mewl against the side of his cool, salt-tasting neck and he silences you promptly, slamming his lips into yours with a faint sweetness beneath the roughness. You can feel him grow hotly against the vertex between your weak legs. You can feel it when you twitch and grind up against him. The desk squeaks on the linoleum floor as he pushes against you and you push back, resisting him with all you have as not to get knocked aside. Even as you claw at his back and ball up the fabric of his jacket in your fist as a silent plead for it to disappear, you don’t feel satisfied. His front teeth slam against yours and you move closer still like you want him to totally absorb you. His tongue ravages in your mouth, no matter what you do to push back. You can’t keep up with the ferocity of his kiss, you think, feeling your lungs burn beneath your chest. When you desperately break away to breathe he steals all the air from your lungs again, hungrily, his teeth raking against your bottom lip and capturing it like a trophy. The sharp pain from his teeth digging into your raw lip breaks through the muddled fog of your horny haze and you reach down, meaning to unbutton his pants. It’s all you want. God, it’s all you want right now—

“[Name]!”

When you jerk awake, you unstick yourself from the handout you were _supposed_ to be working on, and it’s a good second before the dream fades and you realize it was just that—a wet dream. Your vision is blurry, but there’s a face in your field of view, and when you blink away the bleariness you feel your face blanch. Mr. Hatake is looking at you from eye-level and you realize that he’s crouched down, arm resting against your desk as he peers into your reddening face.

“All right there?” he asks casually, but with a hint of suspicion, and you remember Dream Him whispering the same thing to you when he…

You gulp and look away, too ashamed to meet your teacher’s dark eyes right now. You can still feel his eyes burning through you, and at this point some of your classmates have noticed and turned their heads to look, too. Could your legs be crossed any tighter?

“Fine,” you mumble succinctly, hoping he’ll back out of your space so that you could afford to start freaking out in peace. You glance back to him and he’s smirking—at least, you think he is according to the crows’ feet around his eyes, since he always wears a dust mask to block half his face—and, thank God, he gets back up to his feet. He crosses strong arms around himself, making the well-fitted button up shirt tighten around his broad chest. Shit. You need to stop focusing on these details.

He hums a note of disbelief as you glare down at your desk, your skin crawling. “I know I said today was a free period, but if _I_ don’t get to take a nap, neither do any of you. Got it, [Name]?”

You really wish he’d stop saying your name like that. It flicks off the end of his tongue and it makes your nerves rush with static. Wordlessly you nod and keep your head down, hoping he’d think the embarrassed flush mottling your skin is from being caught sleeping in class rather than being caught having a dream of him fucking you _senseless_. He raps his knuckles on the corner of your desk twice like a knock, making you jump. You hold your breath, but he thankfully says nothing else, only cocking his head thoughtfully before walking away. After a minute you muster the courage to look up again and see him back at his desk at the front, feet kicked up with a giant ‘intellectual’ looking book opened between his knees. Of course, it fools nobody, because everybody knows he’s got that weird softcore porn novel hidden behind it. The book is upside down, too, if any further evidence was required. But in any case, his focus is off of you and you can finally breathe again.

You know it’s wrong. He’s your teacher, first off. There are _so_ many no-nos with that. Two, he’s like, _old_. Sure, you’re of _age_ , legally, but that’s not old enough. And it doesn’t make it any more okay. Besides, it’d be weird. You don’t think your thirst transcends raw horniness—Hatake’s the hottest male teacher in the department, being young enough to still be young while old enough to be something different from the dumbassery you call your male cohort. He’s mysterious, what with his affinity to dust masks, and he’s got a wicked scar running down his eye that makes him half-blind (he says, even though he destroyed the competition—aka Mr. Guy—at teacher vs teacher dodgeball). Every time people ask him what it’s from he changes his story. Even that dust mask has no explanation; he’s cited allergies, colds, sensitivity to smell… honestly, nobody knows anything about him besides the fact that he’s got the audacity to read porno during class. But he’s a straight up hunk of meat. A goddamn _specimen_. In this stew of teenage hormones, who _doesn’t_ want a piece of that?

Well, that’s how highly you thought of him before he failed the entire class. He’s brutal at marking. Fuck, he’s a demon. He doesn’t seem to want anybody to succeed. And now the only way he’s fucking you is _over_ , because you need to pass, and time is running out.


	2. Chapter 2

Your heart is racing as you hover outside the open door. He isn’t in the office department, but is prepping for the next period, standing in front of the black chalkboard with a binder propped open in one hand and a stick of chalk in the other. He’s writing something out on the board—presumably the lesson—and his back is to the door. Even from in the hallway, you can hear the aggressive clack of chalk against the board. His writing isn’t particularly messy, but it’s strong with angular flourishes. He hasn’t noticed you staring and you could take off without him ever realizing you were there; but you aren’t going to back out now that you’ve made it all this way. You need to do this. Your F kind of depends on it, for god’s sake. You take a deep breath and step into the classroom, closing the door behind you. Surreptitiously, you lock it with a thumb behind your back. 

“Mr. Hatake?”

He turns when he hears you speak up, and his eyes narrow somewhat suspiciously. He adjusts the signature dust mask on his jaw a bit and then puts his binder down with some reluctance, realizing that he won’t be able to ignore you.

“My tutorial hours aren’t on Tuesdays, you know.” He chides somewhat half-heartedly, not coldly turning you away while also not being warm to whatever request you clearly came here with. It’s a bit intimidating. You haven’t really thought of him as ‘intimidating’, before; you don’t think you’ve ever heard him yell at anybody or even raise his voice. Even though he’s a goddamn demon when it comes to his marking, he’s always laid-back (to a fault). But it’s not the way he faces you that makes you scared. You feel the hairs on your skin bristle as you swallow apprehensively. 

“I-I need something to boost my mark.” The words tumble out of your mouth clumsily so that you can’t regret them. Feeling the momentum, you grip your hands into fists. “Look, I’ll do anything.”

“All the content you guys were tested on was covered in class and in the supplements. It’s not my fault you didn’t learn it. If you don’t want to make the right decisions about your learning, then you deserve to fail my class. Right?” 

It’s very rehearsed, the way he says it, but you figure that of _course_ you’re not the first to come here with the same pleading face. He’s got the worst ‘rate my teacher’ score in the school. He’s not new, and he clearly knows his stuff, but only a handful of students get any mark higher than a D. Most drop out or run crying to the principal. Honestly, you don’t even know _why_ you’re doing so poorly. The lectures make sense, your notes make sense, but for some reason Hatake writes the exams like you’re some blessed little-g-god touched down on the Earth with all the possible knowledge in the world. Which you aren’t. You don’t even want to talk about his stupid pop quizzes that nobody’s ever prepared for. He’s obviously a smart person, but that’s probably the reason he expects everybody to be on the same level as him. Which you _aren’t_. You’re just a struggling high school student. Even the most gifted, snotty students take a knee in front of Hatake’s tests. In any case, his teaching style is not working for you, and you really don’t know how he hasn’t been fired yet. Principal Tsunade is insane for keeping him around. 

The blatant rejection in his tone stings, but you’re already determined to reach your goal. The flippant attitude of his makes you angrier, which only makes your blood hotter, and the hormones run through you… a little faster.

“I’ll do anything,” you repeat slowly, coming closer. It takes a lot of bravery for you to say it, but now that it’s out in the air, it fuels your resolve. You put your bag down on the ground, leaning it against the leg of his desk. He raises an eyebrow at the uncomfortable distance you’ve closed and subconsciously leans away, his broad back pressing into the chalkboard and smudging some of the writing he was working on. You come forwards even more. It feels like you’re walking through jell-o. Something in your body is holding you back too, like how magnets repel each other, but you fight it. You fight it so that the magnet can spin around and snap to the other with explosively cathartic release. Before he can say anything, you make your final move. He jumps, and the words catch in his throat audibly, dying out into a confused gasp. He’s never been anything but cool in front of the class, so the way he stutters makes your heart thump excitedly with pride. When he fully realizes where you’ve put your hand he freezes, but he makes no effort to move away. North and south. _Stuck him._ You stroke the lining of his pants, feeling a soft mass grow firmer under your fingertips.

“Just between us,” you whisper quickly to reassure, sensing his panic rise as his eyes (and the rest of him) grow bigger. “All I want is a little grade bump. A C-. That’s all.”

“This isn’t right,” he warns, but it’s a low growl, and the fact that he hasn’t asked you to stop or move away encourages you with a skip in your heart beat. 

“I know it’s not right,” you mumble back, your face growing hot as you close the gap even more. You feel your chest brush against his, toned by careful exercise. “A little extra credit off the books never hurt anybody. It’s my _learning_ that I’m working on. _Right_?” You’re on your tippy-toes and even though you can feel his body lean stiffly into the wall, he’s trapped underneath you, allowing you to nestle your face into the warm crook of his neck. He smells different to what you’d think; there’s no masculine cologne whipping you in the face, and there isn’t even a residual scent of laundry detergent. He smells like a ghost—nothing except for a faint reminder of the bittersweet tingle you get on your tongue when lightning sharply arcs through a violet summer sky. His hand instinctively grips your lower back when you jab your hand around him more purposefully, your other hand gripping his shoulder like you’re perched there.

“So teach me,” you whisper, the words so hoarse that he has to read your lips to understand. You can’t be sure, but you think he’s biting his lip. 

“Off the books?”

“Mmn—”

Both hands sweep around you, large and all-encompassing. For a second fear strikes through you, but just like static shocks come and go and leave nothing but a pained memory behind, you feel electric lust shoot down your nerves and fill you with desire. He is so rough with you that it’s almost cruel, but you love it. You’re so goddamn dirty and you love it, you love the feeling of chalk and his nails against your skin and you love it when he—

“No!” you hiss to yourself aloud, clapping your hands to your cheeks to give the redness an excuse for occupying the real estate of your face. The rest of the people in the library give you weird looks, but high school is a communal space of suffering, and nobody bothers to ask if you’re okay. You uncross your legs, which’ve been trembling ever-so-slightly underneath the desk, and you sigh exasperatedly. There’s no way that’s happening. You’re not going to fuck a grade out of a teacher, no matter how much you want to. 

(Get a good grade, that is.)

In any case, you still need to do something about your marks before midterms. Your parents will most definitely kill you, but the fat F hovers over your head every day, reminding you of what a failure you are. A twang of annoyance hits your heart. Why’re you sitting here daydreaming about Hatake’s hands all over you when _he’s_ the asshole who put you into this situation in the first place? What kind of teacher genuinely wants to see students fail by making his tests that hard?

The bell rings and you jump, not realizing how long you’d spent here on your spare. Your next period is with—guess who?—Mr. Hatake. Fun, fun, fun. It’s always after you think about him screwing you against a desk that you see him. You pack your untouched homework and books up and sigh again, your fingers slowing on your backpack’s zipper as you think. You’re just going to have to talk to him and hope for the best, right? It’s the only thing you can actually do. Maybe he’ll be a little kinder in real life than he was in… whatever horny hellscape you cooked up in your head.

But first, you think you need a good long drink of cold water.


	3. Chapter 3

So now you’re here, sweaty and all.

You considered skipping class, of course. You do every day. But that’d defeat the entire purpose of winning Hatake’s favour to get a grade bump. Besides, skipping the man’s class would only sign you up for even worse failure. Apparently, he’d never heard of a PowerPoint in his life, and there was nothing uploaded online for later reference. Reading notes taken by friends was like trying to decipher the Rosetta stone. If you weren’t there, you weren’t there. Have a cold? Good fucking luck. Did you die? Good fucking _luck_. Though it wasn’t like he was ever on time, anyways; you don’t think you’ve seen Mr. Hatake anything but late to his own class once. It was the one saving grace of being in his class. You had a perfect attendance record that did not quite correlate to your embarrassing letter grade. 

Though you guess you aren’t on time today, either. Your nerves have gotten the best of you, so you’ve just been hovering in the girls’ washroom pacing between the stalls, trying to calm yourself down. It should be a very simple task to go up to a teacher and ask for help. Hatake isn’t very approachable, though, always so fucking cryptic and unreadable. Hot traits—in theory. Terrible when the only big D you’re getting is the one printed on your midterm report card. 

The washroom’s line thins out and finally you’re the only one left. With a sigh, you pick your bag up off the ground and square your shoulders. You can do this. All you have to do is catch him before he breezes out the classroom and demand extra credit or remedial work. It’s only fair for him to prioritize your learning, right? Simple.

When you leave the washroom, a figure bustles past, nearly nailing you as you step into the hallway. You manage to avoid them by side-stepping, but the collision is near enough for them to drop whatever they were holding, and papers flutter down like an array of snowflakes.

“Fucking moron,” you swear angrily, but feel your skin blanch when you look down at the loafers. No student wears loafers to school (minus that one pretentious rich guy that nobody really likes). “I-I mean, I’m sorry!”

“Oh, [Name]? Huh. You’re late.”

Your blood is cold when you look up to Mr. Hatake’s face. He’s got a dark, gunmetal silver eyebrow cocked, eyes widened with recognition as he looks down at you.

You want to retort that _he’s_ late too, and he’s like… the _teacher_. But starting a fight with somebody you’re trying to get brownie points with doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do right now. You hurriedly stoop to your knees to start scooping together all the shit he dropped, wondering why he was holding this much junk in the first place. Your pinky catches on a particularly hard object, like a textbook. You move your hand to slip it out from beneath the papers that are sticking out so that you can make them even.

“Hey, wait—!”

The panic that suddenly bubbles out of Mr. Hatake surprises you. He’s never been flustered (outside of your… daydreams). The papers slide away and you look down.

**MAKE OUT TACTICS!**

He quite literally snatches the little book out of your hands and tucks it behind his laptop, eyes wide. Even with the dust mask, you can tell he’s making an ‘oh shit’ kind of face. You weren’t supposed to see this, even though everybody already knows he reads these kind of weird soccer-mom-erotica fics. But your brain clicks as you make awkward eye contact with your teacher, and you realize…

You can use this—and _him_.

\---

“So, what. You want me to keep your dirty little secret? Is that it?”

After that incident in the hallway, he’d told you curtly to see him after class and then got up, booking it down the hall. You’d been too shaken up to follow behind right after. When you actually did get to class, he was in the middle of lecturing like nothing had happened. Nobody paid you any mind as you walked in, too busy with heads bent 90 degrees, furiously scribbling down every word Hatake was saying. So, as you slipped into your desk at the back, the only person to notice his eyes linger on you was you.

He tapped his shoe on the ground, swivelling from side to side in his exec chair as people filed out of the class. His gaze was past you, watching the door. Slowly, the room got quieter and quieter, until it was only you and him in the classroom. Finally, his coal black eyes slid up to meet yours.

“Have a seat, [Name].”

Defiantly, you stand, and cross your legs and arms while perched on the edge of his desk. He quirks an eyebrow up but doesn’t push it, leaning further back into his chair to look up at you. It’s clear to both of you that you’re the one with power right now.

“It’d be problematic if Principal Tsunade caught wind that I’m…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “ _…enjoying_ extracurricular reading.”

He speaks smoothly and calmly in a way that’s clearly meant to persuade you, like you talk down to big scary animals growling at you. But this is the first time you’ve had leverage over him, and you aren’t about to let it go because of a little sweet talk. No, you want to hold it over his head, dangle it in front of him where it’s just _so_ close—but not close enough. Just the tip. Just an edge.

“But what if I accidentally let it slip?” you muse slyly, taking a hand and rubbing the ends of your hair. “Like, it’s not exactly my job to keep anything I saw to myself just for your sake. It’s the right thing to do to tell the principal.”

“What do you want, [Name]?” He drops the act and his voice goes cold in frustration. It makes a shiver run down your spine and through your legs.

“I want a B,” you declare, and then shake your head. “No, I want an A. Not an A minus, an _A_.”

His brow twitches and the way he glowers almost makes you take it back in fear. You have to hold your breath to stop yourself from shaking. But he sighs, and the movement of air makes his dust mask puff up a little.

“Is that all?”

“Not yet. I want collateral. To make sure.”

“What else could you possibly—”

He doesn’t always wear ties, but today he did, a navy blue silk one that dangles near the seam of his dark pants. Your fingers gravitate towards it and wrap, gently and then firmly. You jerk him towards you in an aggressive snap. His breath catches with surprise and from the force of it. You have both of your legs around him and put your feet up onto his chair, rolling him even closer towards you. The arms of the chair hit the desk with a _thud_ , trapping him underneath you. The excited smirk burns on your face.

“Nobody said blackmail had even stakes,” you breathe. Your heart is pounding because the door hasn’t been closed. Anybody walking past that happened to glance in would see you, hunched over him like a succubus on her prey. Your hands are shaking. Mr. Hatake could push you off of him if he wanted to, but he’s frozen beneath you, eyes glassy as he waits for you to finish your thought. It almost feels like time stopped if not for the hot blood rushing through you.

“I want _you_ ,” you hiss through your teeth, which dig into your wet lower lip. He blinks languidly, the lashes long, and cocks his head as if he’s confused.

“If I do that, you still have an advantage over me. _You_ wouldn’t get fired, would you, [Name]?”

The way your name is etched in ice fires you up even more. You trace his tie, feeling the taut musculature of his chest through the fabric. 

“Maybe, but I’m just telling you that this is what I want. So, if you don’t agree, then I guess I’ll just have to talk to principal Tsunade—”

The flash of pain across your collarbone is hot and you yelp, before it dissolves into a sickly pleasure that makes your body slump down into him. It feels so _good_ and overwhelming, like a wave that bursts through your body. The teacher’s always the one at the front, standing and lecturing, but now, _you’re_ in control.

Not.

This is more how it happened.

He really had grabbed the book back from you, and he had also requested that you stick around after class. And he really had asked you to keep his secret. And you’d asked (read: begged) for a grade bump. That much was true. But instead of fucking you silent and scribbling in an A- in his gradebook, he gave you something much harder than a hoe’s favourite plaything:

An _assignment_.

You guess it’s what you wanted in the first place, but you hadn’t actually thought it’d go down like this. He’d been almost shy as he slid the package over to you.

_“If you could just pretend you didn’t see that book, that’d be great. But anyways, here’s a review package. I think it’ll help you get the grade you’re asking for.”_

All good and done, yeah? Maybe, if this package wasn’t just as impossible as everything else in his fucking god-awful class. It’s written in horrifyingly convoluted ways, and each question seems to have the whole alphabet of parts. _Using your answer from part Y…_ Well, fuck. You were almost ready to give up entirely. But when he gave you the package, he said something that you couldn’t quite forget.

_“I’ve seen your work. I think you could really succeed if you put in a bit more time to figure out the clues. It means nothing if I just teach it to you, but I really think you’ll be one of the few to understand it. You’re smart, [Name]. I figure you’ve got what it takes in that head of yours.”_

More than plain horniness, spite, or both, _that_ was what was motivating you. If you couldn’t screw it out of him, screw it. You’d just get the grade yourself.


	4. Chapter 4

You really thought that you were going to be able to tap into some sort of knowledge well you’d always had. Maybe, through the power of sheer determination, you would suddenly awaken and ascend. That was how it always went in the shows, right? After garnering the courage to face their fears, an epiphany would arrive, and a studying montage would happen as a mellow but upbeat indie rock anthem played over it. 

Well, it didn’t happen to you, that’s for fucking sure. You were just as lost and dumb as you were at the start of the semester.

It wasn’t as if you weren’t trying. That was why it hurt so badly; you were actually giving it all you had, scouring Google for Quizlet answers—the whole shebang. Nothing was clicking. Absolutely nothing! Was it possible to be this _stupid_? Well, clearly the answer was ‘yeah’, because you were definitely going to fail the final at this rate. Not even like, “oh no, I got a B- instead of an A+!” kind of fail, a big fat fucking F kind of fail. A “I don’t get to graduate” kind of fail. And it was sort of scaring you shitless.

The right thing to do would be to approach another teacher for help. You were pretty sure most of them knew about Hatake’s antics in torturing his students. Mr. Yamato taught the same class in a different block, and was far more approachable, minus the creepy dark rings he always had under his eyes. He’d probably be able to offer you some guidance, which was tons more than what Hatake was doing for you. But because of a worthless thing called pride, you… couldn’t. You wanted to do this on your own. You wanted to stick it to Hatake and say _I’m better than you thought, prick!_ And because of that, he was going to fail you and ship your ass off of the graduation list. 

So you’re crawling back to him again, on your knees, begging.

Really. 

Your knees ache against the hard linoleum, which is dusty from janitorial neglect. There’s broken pencil lead and a green crumpled gum wrapper near your shoe laces. This is the least dignified you’ve ever felt, and yet, a surge of power makes your heartbeat thud in your ears. When you shift your weight forwards, you feel it flex urgently in your mouth, and smile secretively.

There isn’t a lot of air circulation down there and down here, underneath his desk. The air’s trapped, feels muggy, and smells like sweat, salt, and skin. It’s dark, too, the only light filtering in from underneath the table legs. Your one hand is occupied so you steady yourself by placing the other on his thigh, which immediately tenses under your touch. The further you move it up, the tighter it gets. For a mysterious weirdo, his body is painfully easy to read.

He’s quiet—he has to be—but it disappoints you. You want to hear him hiss your name through clenched teeth as if it’s a prayer, or even a curse. You want to suck him dry and steal his soul. It’s partly because you’re mad about him destroying your GPA and self-esteem, but also because it turns you on to think of Kakashi Hatake gasping needily for _you_.

Your eyes flutter open with surprise when a hand comes down. He tugs on yours which is at the base, and you realize he wants you to go faster. He can’t see you at all and you can’t see him, but you roll your eyes and oblige. You can take him to the edge and then some, if that’s what he wants. You fully intend to throw him off the cliff and keep going until only a ghost remains. The taste is bitter and saline, but it’s addictive. He’s so fucking addictive. There’s tears in your eyes and your jaw’s sore, but the tiny shudders fuel you with resolve, so much so that you wrench him fully down your throat and nearly lose it. Something pounds the wood above you—a fist—and he lets out a choked moan for the first time since this started. The pain feels far away when you’re rushed with victory. 

It all feels far away when the bell rings and you’re jolted out of your daydreams.

 _Shit_ , you think to yourself, clapping a clammy hand to your cheek to cool off the heat. This is happening more often than you’d like. At a time like this, too?! Your hormones fucking hate you. You scramble to your feet and stuff your handouts into your bag, not even bothering to straighten them or prevent them from getting crumpled up. Your number one desire is to rush out of the class and move on to lunch, but you pick up the thick worksheet assignment he had given you and pause. Dread sinks your stomach like a gone battleship and you look up, seeing a bored Hatake typing at his laptop at his desk. His bottom half is concealed from view, which makes a pulse run through your legs. People walk past you to file out of class, chattering meaninglessly in their own conversations. You swallow thickly—tasteless, this time. Nothing will change if you don’t have the courage to change them yourself. You clench a fist and then shakily take a step towards him. The forwards momentum moves you until you make it to his desk. He glances up, face unreadable as always behind the mask, but his eyes seem to soften a touch.

“[Name],” he greets nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair and putting his arms behind his head. They flex, looking huge in the tight navy-blue dress shirt he’s worn to class. The sight makes your thigh quiver. Did he _really_ have to go and pose like that? You might’ve chickened out, but instead you steel your jaw and pull up a chair, firmly sitting your ass down.

“Can you help me with this review package? I…” You hesitate for a second. All throughout high school, you’d never gone and asked questions, instead accepting mediocrity. If you didn’t get something, you at least understood something else, so it balanced out to average marks. You’d never felt the need to “try”. But Hatake keeps looking at you patiently and you decide, fuck it. On the exhale, you admit,

“I just don’t get it.”

You expect him to laugh at you. Sneer at you or tell you that he’s not surprised since you’re such a moron. After all, he’s been a demon teacher all this time before. Why would he change now? But to your surprise, he lets out a single chuckle, and when you glance up he’s nodding and reaching for your paper.

“Of course. That’s what I’m here for. Which ones are giving you problems?”

“W-well, all of them, actually… I’m sorry, but—”

“Don’t be sorry.” He shrugs, flipping through to examine your work. “I only have problems with people too cowardly to grow up and face their problems. The fact that you’re here speaks a lot about your strength. So, let’s start from question 1?”

“Yes!” you stammer out, feeling your face brighten. Now you feel bad about all the sexual fantasies, because for the first time, you see him in the way a student should see their instructor—as a teacher meant to help guide and shape the student’s learning.

Though you still aren’t able to say that he isn’t a _hot_ piece of work.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s finally marks season. You all made it out alive—or did you? Your classmates around you are openly praying, eyes shut as they whispered pleas for help up at the sky to whatever deity was listening. Hatake stands at the front, slapping sheets of paper against his palm. Each whack is ominous and bumps your heartrate up.

“Ooookay.” One last slap against his hand, and it fell with such gravitas in silence that it sounded like a lightning bolt. “Leigh?”

She shakily got up to her feet, hustling to the front stiffly. He hands her the paper and, without looking, she rushes back to her seat. After picking up her bag she practically dissolves out of the classroom. After getting your report from him, there was no reason to stick around. One-by-one, people file out. A couple people sneak a glance at the paper and grimace on their way out. Most people just close it and sweep out of the room, probably off to find a safe space to cry. He isn’t giving them out alphabetically, which is even more cruel, as nobody knows who’s next. 

“[Name].”

You aren’t last, and knowing that everybody’s eyes are on you, you get up from your desk. The chair legs squeaking against the linoleum sounds ear-shattering. Walking feels thick and it takes forever before you make it to him. You take a deep breath and look up. He looks down.

“So… how do you think you did?”

He’d been having little conversations with each student before seeing them off. His casual tone makes your heart skip nervously, throwing you off. How _did_ you feel about it? The doubt is a small seed, but after you meet his eyes, you crush it under your heel.

“I won’t be needing a grade bump.”

The exam had been tough. Fuck, it’d been the hardest test you’d ever written in your life. But things had made sense for the first time; without him having gone through the topics with his calm, almost hypnotically soothing voice, you would not have done well at all. But most of all, it came down to you. You’d walked in confident and you came out confident, and whatever this mark was, it wasn’t going to erase that feeling. 

To your utmost surprise, and the others behind you judging from their startled gasps, Hatake _lowered his mask_. He grinned, almost slyly, and it set off an explosion in your heart. He handed back your paper, and a simple Scantron printed 100 looked back up at you. You stared back at it, feeling your jaw slacken, but then your eyes jumped back up to his face. He had a little mole on his chin. He was smiling. 

Well, there goes all your hopes of getting over Hatake any time soon.

“Good work, [Name]. Knew you could do it.”

“Thanks,” you replied breathlessly, absolutely winded by the insane series of events. You blinked and then shook your head a bit, clearing your mind. A cryptic smile of your own graced your lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret about the extracurricular reading.”

He pulled the mask up over his face, but not before a shy flash of embarrassment. He seemed to be the only person unaware of the fact that his ‘secret’ was common knowledge. With a nod, he reached over and patted you once on the shoulder. The touch was firm and warm, and you kind of missed it when it was gone.

“Good luck on the rest of your studies.”

With a full heart, you turned around and bounced back to your seat. He went back to droning out the names, but the mood of the room burnt with the confusion of why Hatake had suddenly shown his face—especially when talking to [Name].

“Hey— _hey_!” the girl who sat behind you hissed as you put your things away. “What did he say to you?!”

“Oh, nothing. Our little secret.” Your eyes twinkled, and you knew full well how she’d take it the wrong way. As expected her eyes widened and her mouth dropped to a shocked “o”. It was a bit mean of you to drop an ambiguous saying like that when nothing at all had happened between you and Hatake—in the real world, at least. But hey, he kind of owed it to you after bending you over backwards in this class. All in a day’s work.

**Author's Note:**

> read this elsewhere: https://deltachye.tumblr.com/post/178123696486/grade-bump


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